The air was electric: Palace guards
had revved-up their suvs, bulletproof limos –
& sirens wailed throughout the secret route.
The President was ill? Was there something wrong?
Exhausted? Who gave her that mango crepe?
O surely there was hell to pay if things went wrong.
The phalanx of doctors, all in solemn attendance,
read the computer printouts, peered through the negatives –
finally nodding to indicate how disaster was averted:
flu, the pestiferous flu that stalked the city,
had stopped the hand that would sign the paper
that would jumpstart projects for national recovery…
Truly, the President’s bod should be treasured like Christ’s;
if an organ failed, the whole universe might as well
stop on a dime.
& the black air thus lifted,
cabinet members broke into a smile,
applauded like a thundering concerto
the healers’ words.
It was business as usual;
the country was again – God be praised – in safe hands.
O if only ordinary patients in charity wards,
attached to oxygen tubes & intravenous ministrations,
blessed by fat priests offering salvations,
knew how close the country was to perdition!